An Open Letter To Everyone On JDate
Dear everyone on JDate,
In a day and age when I can buy my Smartwater, birth control and tofu cream cheese online, find out about my third cousin’s second pregnancy from Facebook’s news feed and get three A.M. drunk video chats from my seventeen-year-old sister, I am not convinced that it’s impossible to find my soul mate via the holy grail, so to speak, of online dating websites: JDate.com. I mean, it’s not like the Jewish elite of Manhattan are spending their weekends getting hammered at shitty bars on the Lower East Side—they’re studying for the bar exam or practicing podiatric medicine on the underprivileged and over-calloused feet of New York. So it’s counter-productive to spend my nights letting uncircumcised men stick their tongues down my throat because, after all, hell hath no fury like a Jewish mother scorned.
The only problem is that all of those worthy Jewish men who are too busy defending the meek or curing cancer are just that—too busy. They’re not spending their time on JDate, because they’ve got jobs and lives and are probably not interested in twenty-one-year-old lushes who vomit tequila and get naked in public on a regular basis. So what’s a nice Jewish girl to do? I mean fine, whatever; my standards aren’t really that high after a few gin and tonics anyway. I can sift through the rest of the Jews in the five boroughs. Actually, make that four. I wouldn’t date anyone from Staten Island. Queens is pushing it, too. And the Bronx, well, odd numbers bother me, so let’s just make it two: Manhattan and Brooklyn. To be perfectly clear, with some exceptions for the self-loathing Long Islanders and misplaced New Jerseyians, this excludes all persons outside of these two boroughs. I’m talking to you, 63-year-old Sandy from Deerfield Beach, Florida.
So dear, lonely, Jewish men aged 20-29 who live within a reasonable subway transit radius and have no visible physical or mental deformities, I am looking for you. I am looking for you as long as your “About Me” paragraphs include more than “I love my family, friends, and the Giants.” All that tells me is your dad still supports your broke, post-college ass, you and your boys go cruisin’ for sluts on the daily and, to be honest, I just don’t care much for football. Also, don’t bother if you can’t spell, or at least utilize spell-check. It doesn’t matter if you’re at the top of your law school class—if you can’t master the difference between “your” and “you’re,” you are not that smart. And to you darling JDaters who “hate the bar scene and came to the Internet to find ‘true love’”—blow me. That’s total bullshit. If you hate the bar scene so much, why are you so intent on taking me out for drinks? Come on you well adjusted, employed, semi-neurotic, single and emotionally available Jewish men—respect me, like your mothers taught you to. If you’re not into “wasted girls dancing at the clubs,” stop trying to get me wasted and make me dance. And FYI, three vodka-crans and two Jell-O shots do not constitute an invitation into my bed. You’ll at least need to whip out the Patron for that.
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You’re not nice, honey, you’re bitter.
If you can’t afford to tip. EAT. AT. HOME. In fact don’t eat at all. Go starve and die.
“GET OFF HER HAIR, IDIOT!”
I’m not made of porcelain and I’m not going to break if you use the wrong words or reveal yourself to be a terrible person.